The Victory (83 page)

For the rest of the day, she had her own way in everything
simply for the lifting of a finger. Her cousins' toys, which
normally she had to bully them into letting her play with,
were handed over eagerly. She was begged to choose the
games they played, given the leading part in everything, and
allowed to win without even having to cheat. At supper she was regaled again with everything she had ever expressed a
preference for, was allowed to sit up as long as she liked, and
brought Jenny to speechlessness with reading aloud her favourite stories by the hour.

She went to bed at last well pleased with her new status.
Previously she had flaunted her possession of two live parents
over her cousins, who had all lost one, but secretly she had been jealous of the distinction of their orphanhood, particu
larly that of Flaminia, Rosamund and Roland, as being so recent. Now she was not only to join them, but to outstrip
them, with a double bereavement as recent as yesterday. She looked forward to putting on mourning clothes the following
day, aware from whispers she had overheard that the sewing
maids had been working on them all day in secret, downstairs
in the laundry-room. Lucy's children had recently gone into
half-mourning, their papa having been dead for six months
now, so Fanny would have no rival to her interesting appear
ance in stark black. She would be the centre of attention, just
as she ought.

So when James came to ask her if she would like to go and
visit grandpapa with him, he was working on more malleable
clay than he might have expected. Fanny had spent a good
deal of the morning admiring her reflection in every glass she
passed, for the black of her mourning-gown made her look
interestingly pale, and the purple ribbon in her hair made her
curls look darker and more lustrous. She was beginning,
however, to crave a larger audience, having come near to
exhausting the possibilities of the nursery. She was used to a
more vigorous life, and having everything she wanted for the asking was proving a little insipid. She wanted new worlds to
conquer, and the idea of a grief-stricken grandfather was
appealing.

She saw the scene in her mind's eye: the old man, his grey
head resting in his hand, weeps into a black-bordered
handkerchief; Fanny enters, looking fragile in black, runs to
him crying, I will comfort you, Grandpapa. He looks up; he
starts; she is the image of her mother; an angel come to
comfort me, he cries, enfolds her in his embrace, and sends
for the lawyer to change his will. Not for nothing had Fanny
stolen Jenny's circulating-library novels and read them under
the bedclothes; and listening to the servants' gossip when they thought she was otherwise engaged had given her a very clear understanding of her grandfather's financial potentialities.

And quite apart from all that, there was the prospect of a
trip in the carriage with her father, having his attention all to
herself for hours and hours, travelling across country she had
never seen before, stopping and perhaps even eating at inns,
staying away from home, everything novel, everything delight
ful. It would have been worth it for that alone; so when
James asked her tentatively if she would like to go, she gave
him a brave, sweet smile, and said that if Papa said it was the
right thing to do, to go and comfort Grandpapa, then they
ought to do it.

James looked at her with surprise and relief and gratific
ation. 'And you will be good, won't you, Fanny?' he said
coaxingly.

Fanny looked a little hurt. 'Good, Papa? Of course I will.'
James smiled hastily. 'Of course you will, my pigeon, I
know that. It's just that your grandpapa will be very upset,
and he may not seem very pleased to see us, just at first, and
so we must be careful what we say and do, not to upset him
even more.’

Fanny smiled her prettiest smile. ‘Grandpapa will be
pleased to see
me,'
she asserted. 'I'm his only grandchild now,
and his heiress. I shall make him love me, too. It will be all
right, Papa.’

He gathered her in and kissed her tenderly. 'I'm sure it
will, chick. Who could help loving you?’

Fanny, gathering this to be in the nature of a rhetorical
question, merely snuggled closer, and forebore to mention
Father Aislaby and Aunt Lucy, to say nothing of her departed
mother, her mother's personal maid, and Farmer Ramsgill of Eastfields Farm, whose heifers she had chased on horseback
last week.

*

Setting off very early the following morning, they arrived at
Hobsbawn House in the late afternoon, after a journey that
was a series of delights to Fanny. James was glad for his own
sake that he had brought her, for as they neared their destin
ation, he began to feel apprehensive about their reception,
and then suffered a resurgence of remorse and guilt. Fanny's
spirits sustained him, and he hoped, too, that her presence
would deflect some of the hostility that might otherwise be
aimed at him.

The blinds were down on the windows of Hobsbawn
House, and the doorknocker was wreathed in black crape,
and these sights brought home to James abruptly the genuine
mourning that must be going on inside. Fanny was still
bubbling with excitement, and he took a moment before
descending from the carriage to warn her to be quiet and
modest when they went in, and not to speak loudly or laugh
or ask questions.

‘
They will all be very sad about your mama, and you
mustn't upset them. Be a good girl, and don't speak unless
you are spoken to.'

‘
I know,' Fanny said impatiently, peering out of the carri
age window. 'Is this where Mama was born? It's a nice house,
isn't it? Will it be mine one day?’

James felt a brief spasm of doubt about the wisdom of
having brought her after all, but the steps were being let
down, and it was too late to turn back now. His knock upon
the door was a long time answering, but at last there was a
sound of drawing bolts, and the old butler stood there, blink
ing in the light after the twilit gloom of the hall. He did not at
once seem to know who James was, and stared at him blankly.

‘
Bowles, isn't it?' James said. 'Is your master at home? We've come to pay our condolences, Miss Fanny and I. A
terrible business, this. I know how much you must feel it.
You've been with the family a long time, haven't you?’

Gradually recognition had been dawning on the butler's
grey face, and James was not surprised when it was followed
not by welcome but by anxiety. He could hardly expect the
old servant to receive him joyfully.

‘
Mr Morland,' he said at last. 'And Miss Fanny. Why — I
don't know what to say. You've come to see master?’

 
‘
Yes, that's right. May we come in?’

At the gentle reminder, Bowles stepped back automatically,
and they had entered the hall before he remembered to say, 'I don't know if he'll see you. He's seen no-one yet.' he sounded dazed, and talked on in a monotone as he shuffled after them.
‘Not that people are visiting much. It's the plague, you see.
It's gone beyond the poor people this time: there's cases all
over town. Folk are stopping home, now, afraid of catching
it.'

‘
Well, I'm not afraid,' James said, restraining Fanny with a
glare from hopping from one foot to the other as she stared
around the hall in frank curiosity. 'Will you be so kind as to
go and tell your master we are here, and want to pay our
respects?'

‘
Aye, well, I'll tell him,' Bowles said doubtfully, and went
slowly away. The house was unnaturally quiet. The ticking of
the long-case clock by the stairs was the only sound. James
occupied the time by paying off the postboys and carrying in
their bags. He was puzzled that there was no footman to do it for
him. Had the servants run away, he wondered? The reality of
the plague which had killed his wife was in this silence.

Fanny had noticed it too. 'Papa, where is everyone?' she
asked, tugging his sleeve. 'Doesn't Grandpapa have any
servants?'

‘Of course he has,' James said automatically.

‘
Then why doesn't someone come? I don't like it here. I
want to go home,' Fanny said.

Someone had come. Out of the shadows behind the stairs,
silent and menacing, Dakers appeared, so unexpectedly that
Fanny let out a little scream. The woman had hardly eaten for days, and her face had taken on a skull-like appearance which
made her glittering eyes and hard mouth all the more frigh
tening and sinister. Even James had to take a firm hold of his
senses and tell himself that she was only a harmless old
woman.

‘
So,' she hissed, 'it is you! I thought I heard your voice.
Have you come here to gloat? I should have thought you'd
have more sense than to come to this house, after what you've
done. But no — there isn't an ounce of proper feeling in you,
is there?’

James swallowed. 'Now, Dakers,' he said, 'I know you're
upset, but that's no' excuse for insolence. I've come to see Mr
Hobsbawn, not you, so just you go away and get on with
whatever you were doing.'

‘
I don't take orders from you,' she said. 'I'm not your
servant. I'm nobody's servant now, since you killed my
mistress, God rest her poor sweet soul. A misery you made
her life, and you drove her to her death. And you have the
gall to come here, and bring that hell-bound imp with you!'
She flung out an accusing finger at Fanny, who jumped with
a creditable speed of reaction to hide behind her father,
holding on tightly to his coat-tails, in case the old madwoman
was a witch and could spirit her away.

‘
How dare you speak to me like that?' James began angrily,
but Dakers advanced another step towards him and cut him
off.

‘
I've wanted to say that and more to you for many a long
year, but I never did while my mistress was alive, and not
because I didn't dare, either. But she wouldn't allow it. She
defended you, poor deluded soul. She would have you treated
with proper respect, though you shewed her none, and so I
held my tongue. But there's nothing to stop me now. I
watched her die, and I'd give my life to watch you go the
same way, only slower.’